


Trade You

by RisingPhoenix761



Series: Trade You [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Explicit Language, Gen, Mild Angst, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingPhoenix761/pseuds/RisingPhoenix761
Summary: "He needed somewhere to cool off, somewhere with a decent breeze that wasn't crowded with people seeking his attention..."





	Trade You

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this originated from a prompt on Tumblr and turned out nothing like I planned, yet I really like the result. Interesting to note that as long as I've been writing, I've never used this much profanity in such a short story...

Dear sweet Jesus on a saltine cracker, it was fucking _hot_.

Negan prowled the Sanctuary on his administrative rounds, overseeing operations, getting updates on supplies, sending men off to scare the fucking piss out of a few groups reported thinking of defying his rules, praising a couple people doing good work in his community and reprimanding a couple that were slacking, handing shit off to Simon when he could and dealing with it himself when he couldn't. His normal routine, barring the heat of what had to be the hottest fucking summer since the whole fucking world went to shit.

He was sweating bullets in his motorcycle jacket, the usually comfortable leather making him feel he was roasting alive. Perspiration rolled down his arms to his palms, his grip on Lucille slippery and grimy. Poor sweet girl...he felt a little guilty defiling her like that, but at least she wasn't suffering like he was. God had evidently said _fuck it_ and turned off the AC on the whole goddamned planet as far as he could tell.

The rounds finally completed for the day—or the moment, at least—he managed to shake off his supplicants, the few genuinely devoted as well as the many just trying to kiss ass. He needed somewhere to cool off, somewhere with a decent breeze that wasn't crowded with people seeking his attention...

The garden. That would suit him.

Propping Lucille on his shoulder, he strolled out of the Sanctuary and out to the area reserved for planting. Vegetable patches, mostly, though there were a few fruit trees as well, all usually well-tended and fertile but the plants had also suffered in the heat, leaves wilted and drying and the ground baked to dust. About the only things still growing were the fucking weeds. Which made sense, in a way, bottom feeders and parasites prospering in a disaster. It was the way of nature. It was the state of the whole fucking _world_ , children. Take a walk among the dead, and you'd learn it pretty fucking fast or die stupid. Fuck, you might die anyway. Death was also the way of nature.

He heaved a sigh and kept walking to the little scrub of trees at the edge of the neglected vegetables. The lack of gardeners would ordinarily piss him the fuck off—hard enough to keep people fed without a few lazy fucking shitheads that didn't want to contribute—but it was silent in the gardens right now and that was just what he needed. His workers were likely taking what shelter they could from the heat of the day, and he couldn't say he blamed them.

Well, maybe not _all_ of them were taking shelter...

As he got closer to the trees where he planned to get some shade, he could hear a muffled, rhythmic thunking sound punctuated by gasps of effort, and through the branches he could make out the figure of a woman determinedly swinging an axe into the ground.

He could feel heatstroke coming on just watching her.

"I always admire dedication to the task at hand," he called, stepping closer, "but if I gotta call Carson down here because you've overdone it in this shit, that's just going to make it a bad day for a lot of people."

She didn't stop, didn't turn around, didn't even acknowledge his presence, but raised the axe over her head and brought it down again.

Negan moved until they were in swinging distance of each other, her with her axe and he with Lucille. "Maybe you didn't fucking hear me the first fucking time," he said, pitching his voice louder, "but there's a damn good reason why no one is busting ass when it's hotter than a threesome of weasels in a burlap sack outside, so give it a fucking rest."

Still nothing. The back of her neck was sunburned and her shirt was soaked through with sweat, and she just kept ignoring him. Either she had gonads bigger than most of his men, or she was just plain stupid.

Either way, she clearly didn't know who the fucking boss was around here.

He waited until the axe was down again, then clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Let me explain it to you, dollface—"

She whirled around, yanking herself away and trying to lift the axe in the same motion, but barely brought it up to knee height before she tripped and sprawled in the dust, the axe falling useless.

Negan's remaining patience lasted about as long as his tolerance. Whatever shit she'd been thinking of pulling, it wasn't going to fucking fly. Nobody defied him, much less tried to take a swing. Nobody. He seized her upper arm in a solid grip and hauled her to her feet, dragging her a few steps away from her erstwhile weapon.

"What the fucking _fuck_ was that?" he demanded, voice rising to a half-shout. "Have you lost your fucking mind, or do you just not fucking know who the fuck you're looking at?"

Several emotions played across her face in rapid succession. First shock, then recognition and surprise, followed by A-plus bona fide unadulterated awe.

Well, at least she _did_ know him. He relaxed his grip on her arm the slightest bit and went on, "I could almost understand trying to chop my fucking head off with a motherfucking axe if I hadn't said a fucking word to you, but that's not the fucking case, is it, sweetheart? Care to tell me who the fuck you think you are that you can get by with something as goddamned disrespectful as to fucking _ignore_ me when I'm talking to you?"

Her eyes stayed blank and uncomprehending and she raised her free hand to gesture at her ear before shrugging apologetically.

Son of a syphilitic floozy. The woman wasn't ignoring him at all. "Deaf?" he said.

She shrugged again.

He released her and stepped back. "Well, fuck me. Did I just make a gigantic ass of myself, or what?" She didn't react to the words, and he hastily tried to recall what sign language he knew. He'd worked with a few deaf kids before the world fell apart, and while he wasn't exactly fluent, he at least knew the basics. He drew a clockwise circle on his chest with his fist, belatedly shifting his expression to one of remorse. _I'm sorry_.

She waved her hand dismissively as if to say no apology was necessary.

He indicated her, tapped the first and middle fingers of each hand over each other, then spread his hands as if asking a question. _What is your name?_

She made a few signs with her fingers, going slowly so he could keep up. W-E-N-D-Y.

He nodded, then spelled his own name. N-E-G-A-N. He added an ironic bow. "At your service, Wendy darling."

Wendy giggled and bobbed a curtsy.

"Can you read lips?" he asked, forming each word carefully.

She shrugged again.

He heaved a sigh and scrubbed a sweaty hand over his face. Holy fucknuts, it got hotter by the damn minute! He gestured to the meager shade the trees provided with a few inquiring motions, adding by habit, "Do you mind?"

She shook her head and he stepped into the shade, sloughing off his jacket and spreading it on the ground to give Lucille a place to rest. Carefully propping her against a tree trunk, he sat down beside her in the dust and turned back to Wendy.

He hadn't seen her around the Sanctuary, as far as he was aware, so she likely came in with some of that new group he'd visited. The leader was some Jesus freak convinced all God's children should live in harmony...until Caesar demanded his tribute, that is. And Lucille, well, she didn't appreciate that much. With some Bible-thumping cult leader like that in charge, it was no fucking wonder some of his flock chose to leave the fold. Wendy sure as hell didn't look like she'd left paradise; she was on the tall side and was probably slender once, though now she had the half-starved look most folks did nowadays. He could count the vertebrae in her spine, for fuck's sake, her long limbs closely resembled twigs fit only for kindling, and with those sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, and that razor-sharp jaw, she looked as though someone had begun to mummify her and she woke up halfway through it.

It was a damn shame. She was probably pretty once upon a better time, but the state she was in now, fucking her was probably one step short of necrophilia.

He shook the thought from his head as she raised a bony hand to brush sweat from her eyes, then reach for the fallen axe. Malnourished as she was, he was amazed she even had the strength to lift it, and he leaned closer to see what she was doing. A shovel lay abandoned nearby and she stood at the edge of about three square feet of freshly-turned earth...breaking ground for more planting? It looked like she had uncovered a tree root and was attempting to cut it away, though she hadn't made much progress, and it wasn't hard to understand why. He watched her next swing, and while she was strong enough to lift the axe, she couldn't do much else with it but let gravity take over and use its own weight to chip at the root. The effort was valiant but feeble, and she looked ready to pass out from exhaustion at any second.

Getting to his feet with a sigh, he tapped her on the shoulder, then held out his hand. She looked down at the axe she held, and gave it to him at his nod. He motioned her towards the trees and waited until she was seated, at either a respectful or uneasy distance from Lucille, before hefting the axe and getting to work. Two powerful swings later, and sayonara.

Negan set the axe aside and joined Wendy in the shade. She raised her fingers to her lips and swept her hand out towards him with a smile.

"You blowing me kisses, sweetheart?" he teased, though he gave her a thumbs up in response.

She sighed and reached for a plastic bottle sitting nearby that once held soda, and the few sips she took of it were likely as carefully rationed as the water that now filled it. He took a flask from the pocket of his jacket, the smell of the Scotch wafting up from the moment he removed to the cap right up until the first swallow. Perfection.

He had no idea how long he was sitting there before he realized Wendy was staring at him uncertainly, as if unsure what to make of his presence. He glanced at her with one raised eyebrow and she looked away quickly, embarrassed to get caught. She moved to stand and go back to work, but he motioned again for her to sit. "Take a break," he said. Speaking was useless, but it was hard not to. "You absolutely have more balls than my men, out here in this shit. Fuck, it's hot out here!"

She made no move to reply, and when he lifted the flask to his lips again she offered her water bottle, raising the other hand in a hesitant, half-joking, give-and-take gesture he interpreted as _Trade?_

He smirked at her. "Sorry to let you down, doll, but you need better currency than that."

She hesitated again, then slowly reached into the crumpled paper bag beside her and withdrew a small yellow cake in a cellophane wrapper.

His eyes widened in amazement. "Well, I'll be a goddamned fucking monkey's uncle," he said. "Where in the holiest of all fucks did you get that?" The new world had made decent alcohol a luxury but there were plenty of liquor stores in the Saviors' territory, and probably a moonshiner or two, come to think of it. But it had been a long, lonely fucking year indeed since he'd seen anything as decadent and goddamn fucking delectable as one little motherfucking Twinkie.

Wendy couldn't hear his words but she could see his expression, and her eyes took on a slightly anxious cast as she wrote in a patch of dust with her finger, _My last box. I've been saving them for months._

Well, she didn't steal them from him, at least, but holding out was fucking rude as fuck. He brushed away her words and traced, _Did anyone tell you my rules, Wendy darling_ _?_

She looked a bit more anxious now; did she see Lucille's wrath when her group's head honcho tried to buck the system? Probably so. Her fingers twitched as she held out the Twinkie and made a chopping motion with her hand against it. Half.

He nodded and added in the dust, _You work for everything you get._

She nodded and waited for him to go on.

He considered the situation a moment. It was an infringement of the rules, all right, but under the circumstances...he wrote, _And you're the only one working right now._

The corner of her mouth quirked as if trying to smile and the tension eased from her shoulders. She tore open the wrapper and he added, _But don't tell anyone_.

She shook her head, a serious look on her face as she mimed drawing a zipper over her lips.

He smiled and held out the flask. "Trade you?"

His smile finally encouraged hers to respond, and she split the Twinkie and offered him half before taking the flask, taking a conservative sip and suppressing a shiver as the Scotch went down.

"Yeah, maybe you're right," he agreed as she handed it back. "It's piss compared to some I've had in the past, but then again, there's a lot of shit now that's piss compared to this." He took another swallow before starting on the Twinkie, closing his eyes in obscene appreciation. "Holy fucking fuck, girl, it's been way too fucking long since I've had one of these..." He finished it slowly, wanting to make it last as long as humanly possible, licking his fingers to get the last crumbs and washing it down with a bit more Scotch. "The simple pleasures, doll," he said, "are so much more goddamned pleasurable once everything else goes to shit..."

Wendy ignored him, working on her half of the Twinkie and pausing for occasional sips of water.

"Too many people took the simple things for granted," he went on, "but not me. Not anymore. Nothing like the end of the fucking world to give you a fresh perspective on what you should appreciate. A fine whiskey, a fine ass woman, the occasional snack in the shade..." He raised the flask in salute to his companion. "Thanks for the trade, Wendy darling."

He hoped she understood the gesture, and by the way she returned it with her bottle of water, he guessed she did. She looked around the unbroken ground for a moment, then indicated she was getting back to work. Negan nodded in polite approval and she got to her feet, picking up the shovel and driving it into the dirt.

It was hard work just watching her. She was in no kind of shape for the heavy labor but she didn't quit, her physical ability vastly exceeded by stubborn willpower. That kind of tenacity spoke volumes. She was disabled but she wasn't incapable, and he respected that, goddamnit.

"You can't work hard for me if you work yourself to death," he said, standing up and walking to her. He tapped her shoulder and when she glanced up, he pointed to the shovel, held up two fingers, and spread his hands to pose his question.

She paused in consideration, then went to the supplies she'd brought out with her and held up a cultivator fork, shrugging.

"Hell, that'll work," he replied, taking the shovel from her. He pointed from the fork to the chunks of earth she had already turned with the shovel, then began to turn more himself.

There was always something de-stressing about yard work. Hard work, for sure, but it was hard to think about much else when focused in battle for mastery of the earth itself, the futility of the endless labor balanced with the sheer physicality of it oddly satisfying. He moved along the row she had already begun, breaking the ground into decent-sized chunks, and she followed behind with the cultivator fork, breaking the chunks into manageable soil. He necessarily set the pace, and he worked deliberately slower than he might have so she wouldn't have to push herself so hard.

Sure, he could be a gigantic douchecanoe, he was a ruthless S.O.B., and he was unforgiving when laying down the law, but not one motherfucker on the whole motherfucking planet earth could say he didn't take care of his people.

"I try, you know," he said. "It's not much different now than it used to be. People need someone to lead, to look up to, to solve all their problems when they can't or won't do it for themselves. The situation has just gotten a bit more fucking serious, is all."

Wendy worked steadily, giving no indication she was paying any attention to him apart from taking her turn with the earth he'd just worked, glancing his way now and then. She wouldn't be paying attention, would she? It was kind of liberating, getting the chance to spill his guts for a change without worrying about anything else, and so he kept talking.

"You've got to be everything to everyone, doll. Leader, provider, judge and jury every now and then... Take care of the ones doing right and deal with the ones who aren't. And whether they love you, fear you, or hate your fucking guts, you've got to make them respect you. It's the only thing keeping shit running smoothly.

"And I gotta tell you, it's good to be the king, but it sucks giant elephant dick to be the chief. You get your pick of all the good shit that's left, you're at the top of the motherfucking food chain, and when you say 'jump' you got an entire fucking crowd asking you how high. And you can't trust a fucking one of them. They'll turn on you in a heartbeat if you give them half a chance. That part hasn't changed, either. It's still dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest, babydoll, and you don't get to have friends when you're the one in charge."

Wendy was leaning on the fork, having caught up to him along the row and waiting for him to move along farther. She watched patiently as he stomped the shovel into the ground again and again, and fuck if it didn't feel great to blow off a little steam in the work and in an audience that couldn't even hear him bitching.

"Not saying they're all gunning for my spot, but if they thought they could get away with it...too fucking bad for them, it sure as fuck isn't what it's cracked up to be. I'm responsible for all this shit, girl, and believe you me, it's a fucking shit ton of shit to be responsible for. I've got to keep these people alive, that's on me like hair on a monkey's ass. That's why the rules are so goddamn fucking important. No exceptions. It's easier all around, you know? That's why you can't let shit slide no matter what. You think I want to be hard on anyone, Wendy darling? Fuck no I assure you I sure as fuck fucking don't. I wish everyone could cooperate, work together, all that fun shit. But when they don't, I gotta do what I gotta do, can't worry about who hates me for it.

"That's the part that really chaps my ass. Will they remember when the rules kept everyone safe? Not fucking likely. Will they remember when someone broke the rules and I had no choice but to come down on them? Hell to the motherfucking yes. It teaches them about consequences, but it also teaches them to fear you, despise you, and wish your immortal soul to the hottest corner of Hell there is. Knowing that, I know there's no one on my side that's really on my side. I doubt I've had anyone like that since—"

He broke off, his throat closed with sudden unexpected emotion as he glanced at the baseball bat sitting in the shade.

There was a touch on his arm and he shook off his mood to see Wendy had reached out with a hesitant hand, looking concerned. He shrugged and brushed her off, turning back to the ground with renewed determination. Just fucking great. Now the deaf chick would start feeling sorry for him, and he didn't have time for that kind of shit.

He kept his mouth shut after that, focusing on the dirt beneath his feet, and Wendy fell in beside him, working steadily along with him until she signaled to him they'd finished the patch she had outlined. He strolled back to the trees and set the shovel aside, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and wincing as the denim chafed at the new blisters. Wendy followed behind him, signing a quick _thank you_ as she gathered her tools.

"Don't mention it, doll," he said, taking Lucille in hand and shaking out his jacket.

She hovered indecisively for a moment, then wrote in the dust, _We all do what we have to do, and it takes guts to do what you're doing. Not everyone will see it that way, but some will. The ones who see and don't judge are the best friends you have._

Negan paused, struck dumb. When he finally found words, it was, "I thought you said you couldn't read lips."

 _I never said either way,_ she wrote. _You assumed I couldn't_.

Was he supposed to be embarrassed? He only said as much as he did because he thought she wouldn't understand, and it was disconcerting as fuck to be caught that vulnerable.

She read his expression and solemnly zipped her lips closed again, then winked reassuringly.

He was grinning at her before he knew it, reaching for the tools. "C'mon, Wendy darling. Let's put these away and get ourselves a drink. I'm sweating my balls off out here."

 


End file.
